


the centre of the universe.

by aceface



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceface/pseuds/aceface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Archuleta runs away from home, to the freedom of Venice Beach. Only being homeless isn't as easy as he thought, so it's lucky that David Cook has a habit of taking in strays. (Or; Archie is afraid, and Cook teaches him not to be.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the centre of the universe.

The sun beats down, hot and heavy, and David wipes a few beads of sweat from his face and tries not to think about how totally gross it is. He also doesn't think about how he's barefoot on the boardwalk, the wood warm and dry beneath his feet, and he doesn't think about how he's probably getting, like, diseases transmitted through his feet. And he can't afford health care or anything, not now he's here, so he'll just... die. A horrible, diseased death. But it's okay, because he's totally not even thinking about that.

It is _super_ hot, though. Everyone around him seems to be happily wandering around in like, those weird board shorts, and they all have stupidly tanned legs and, like, David doesn't want to_blind_ everyone with how white his legs are. Or attract any kind of attention whatsoever, obviously, which leads to him hitching his pack further up his back and ignoring the damp warm feeling of his t-shirt sticking close to his skin. One step after another and he's not even sure where he's going. He's just looking for somewhere he can sleep, just for a few nights, just until he manages to get back on his feet.

Maybe, he thinks, he can sleep on the beach. It gets cold at night, but he's got a blanket in his bag and it's... it'd be better than sleeping in the town, maybe? It's not like he has many options. Not for the first time, David begins to feel the sinking feeling of doubt creeping back in and slipping under his skin, making his stomach roil. He takes the steps down to the beach, enjoying the sudden softness of the sand on the soles of his feet. It's nice, and he allows himself to relax a little, dropping his bag on the beach and sitting down carefully next to it.

When he's like this, when it's just David sat on the beach next to his pack, looking like any other kid, he can pretend that everything's okay. That maybe when he gets cold or hungry, he'll just stand up and go home. That his mom and dad will be waiting for him to get home and maybe they'll be worried about him, because he came home a little later than usual, and then they'll all maybe go out for ice cream. There are too many 'maybe's involved in that daydream, though, and David resigns himself to the fact that he's out on his own now. But it's not all bad. It was his _choice_, after all, and this way he doesn't have to go to BYU and become, like, a doctor. This way he can make his own way in life and do whatever he wants and besides, if his parents were disappointed enough that he didn't want to be a doctor, he doesn't even want to think about the level of worried looks he'd have got if he'd admitted that he didn't exactly want to be _straight_.

"That's all behind me," David tells himself, because sometimes saying things out loud can make them real, and he settles down on the sand with his pack under his head as a make-shift pillow. It's uncomfortable, with hard lumps in all the wrong places, but David hasn't slept since about one am this morning and the sun makes patterns behind his eyelids. He doesn't feel safe but he feels warm and it's not long before the sound of the waves send him drifting into sleep.

-

David wakes up with a painful ache at the back of his neck and a thudding headache. It sounds like someone is drumming inside his head, beating a large drum over and over in a persistent rhythm, and it takes him more than a few groggy moments to realise that, while the headache exists inside his head, the drumming exists outside of it. Loud and rhythmic and such a steady_thud thud thud_ over and over and, gosh, David feels like he could be going crazy with the sound of it all.

He manages to stand up and blood rushes to his head, the sand slipping and sliding around him as he struggles to find his balance. The sun is low in the sky and his shadow stretches out behind him, mimicking his movements as he leans one hand on the rock face next to him and reaches down to wrap the strap of his pack around his hand. He leans back heavily against the rock, breathing carefully in and out as he catches his breath. For a moment, he'd thought he was at home again, just a second of familiarity before his surroundings caught up to him, and it's difficult having the reality brought back to him that he's not home at all. Instead, he's... here.

This is a good thing, David reminds himself. He _wants_ to be here.

He slings his pack over his shoulders and manages to hitch it further up his back, the sound of the drums drawing him in. David's always loved music, any kind, and he can see a fire flickering and lighting up the sky. It just seems like the place to go, and it's not like he has any better options, so he starts to make his way over towards it without even really knowing where he's going. It doesn't take him long to get within sight of the fire and the hazy figures surrounding it, dancing and laughing. He's reluctant to go any nearer once he sees them, shy and intimidated, but also a little jealous. It's just... they all look so _happy_. David doesn't want to intrude on that. He probably wouldn't fit in anyway. Mormon kids from Utah rarely do.

"Hey, kid." One of the guys detaches himself from the group, walking over with his hands in the pockets of his shorts. David feels stupidly overdressed, in his damp sandy jeans and t-shirt, wearing more than everyone else he's seen so far. Still, it's not like he's going to go _shirtless_ or anything, especially not in comparison to these guys because, hi, they're all sort of... toned and stuff. David is about as far from toned as you can get, honestly. He's probably more like a twig. A pale twig. Pale twigs don't really go around shirtless.

The guy that comes over doesn't have a perfect body, though. There's a big of pudge just at the top of his shorts, a tiny bit of a belly, and his hair is kind of weird-looking. He still manages to be like twenty million times cooler than David could ever hope to be, though, and he's eating a hot dog. David's stomach reminds him with a growl that he hasn't eaten since this morning, and even that was only a bag of chips that he bought from a vendor on the boardwalk.

He takes an inadvertent step back from the guy, though. David's not –- he isn't _stupid_, he knows better than to trust random guys. He ran away from his parents to like, actually do what _he_wanted to do, not to get jumped or beaten or whatever. David has very little money left –- he didn't even have that much to start with, honestly – and he's not about to lose it to some wanna-be hippie in front of a campfire.

"No, hey, I just wanna talk to you," says the guy, holding up his hands like David's some skittery animal or something, which he totally isn't. Besides, it's _sensible_ of him to be wary. People that aren't wary _die_, it's not like Venice Beach is safe. "I haven't seen you around before."

"Well, it's not like you know _everyone_," David says, folding his arms across his chest and resisting the urge to take a step back. He has to stand his ground here, because if you show people that you're afraid then they take advantage of it. David promised himself leaving Utah that he wouldn't ever let anyone push him around again and that includes random beach-bums in Venice. It includes _everyone_. If David can travel, like, halfway across the country on his own then he can stand up to some guy.

The guy laughs, shoving his hands in his pockets and David can't help envying his nonchalant stance. "I kind of do, actually. Around here, anyway." David doesn't have a reply to that and the guy only wait a few beats before saying, "So, what's your name?"

"It's none of your business," David says wildly, still fighting the urge to turn and run, and the guy holds up his hands and says, "Hey, man, there's no judgement here. We're all equals, you know?"

"No, I don't know," David snaps back, "and if you'd never seen me before then you'd know that, wouldn't you. I mean, it's just -- all _this_," he says, flinging his hands out to encompass the beach and surprised at how shaky his voice is getting, "it's just, it's not anything, and I just, I don't _know_ you and I don't know why you're even talking to me so just, just leave me alone, okay?"

The guy bites his lip, looking concerned, and he takes a step forward. "Listen--"

"No," David cuts him off, clutching the straps of his pack to stop his hands from shaking. "I don't -- this was a mistake, I'm not like _you_, I don't even know why I'm still talking to you."

"I want to help," the guy says quietly, and David is sick of people saying that. That's what his parents said and the Elders at temple, and David doesn't _want_ anyone's _help_. It's just a thinly disguised version of 'we know what's best for you so do what we say' and David came all the way here to get away from people like that, not to just find a replacement for them.

"You don't," he says flatly, and it's not hard to turn and leave this time. He's got a lot of practice.

-

So storming off wasn't the best plan, David can readily admit this. In fact, as far as plans go, it was actually nearer the bottom of the scale. It was a really, _really_ dumb plan. It's not even that he's lost (which he is), but even if he wasn't, it's not like he'd know where to go. He's not – He'd look really stupid going back to the beach and being like, 'yeah, hi, I kind of yelled at you but I was planning on staying here tonight so can you just pretend I'm not here?'

He's been walking in circles since then, until his feet are sore and tired and it's the moon and stars overhead instead of the sun low in the sky. Walking without properly thinking where he was going was a really bad idea, is the point, because now David's in some kind of alley. The walls rise up high on either side of him and he can hear the noise of people having a good time coming from the street. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to where the people are, but being around people who are having a good time is one of the last places that David wants to be right now, honestly. Besides, he's not being sensible anymore. He's being... brave. That's what this is. it's not stupid, it's _brave_.

When some guy presses the tip of a knife into the small of David's back, however, it doesn't take long for him to lose all his illusions about being brave. The worst part, the worst thing about dying right there and then, would be that no one would even know. His parents, he could be dead right now for all they know, it's not like anyone could tell them. And there's no one here – just, David doesn't really have anyone. If this knife got pushed all the way to his heart or whatever, no one would even _care_. And that's kind of scary.

It's not as scary as the fact that there is a _knife_ at his _back_, though. David can barely stand upright because his knees are shaking – his legs, arms, he's a mass of shivers and the only thing he can manage to say is, "Um, please don't kill me?"

"Well," says the man behind him, and his mouth is close enough to David's ear that he can feel the hot breath on his skin, unpleasant and damp. "I'm sure we can come to some arrangement, pretty thing like you," and every hair on David's body stands up.

"I," he says stupidly, still feeling the prick of the knife between his shoulder blades and he can't think anything right now apart from _this is it_. He wishes he could draw up the courage to hit the guy, go down fighting, but David is practical if nothing else and he knows that he'd just end up making it worse for himself.

There's the noise of some other footsteps, echoing down the alley, and the man laughs a little and says, "Turn around, pretty, so I can see your face." His nausea is rising, bile stinging his throat and a sense of dread means David feels more than a little bit like his world is ending.

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and kicks out wildly behind him.

There's a satisfying _thunk_ sound of his foot solidly connecting and David spins around, taking a step back. The only problem is, the guy is still between David and the exit to the alley and he looks really, _really_ mad. David carries on walking back, trying not to stumble and fall, and the man advances on him with his face set in a snarl and all David can think to do right now is to pray because he's exhausted all his other options and oh, _gosh_, can't this just be _over_\--

Someone hits the man from behind, the breath rushing out of the man's body in a rush of air, and the man somehow collects himself in time to turn around and punch the other guy in the eye. David has no idea who this new one is but he's not doing so well now he's lost the element of surprise; the guy that attacked David is bloodying the new guy's nose, and his fists are everywhere at once.

Somehow, though, the new guy drives knife-guy back, landing a solid punch in his stomach, and David barely has time to move out of the way before the blow is followed up with another and the man's lying in a crumpled heap at David's feet. David briefly entertains the happy thought that maybe God sent him some kind of really awesome avenging guardian angel, but then he glances up and makes awkward eye contact with the weird haired guy that had said hi to him at the edge of the circle.

The sensible thing to do would probably be to run away, David knows. Just to run and maybe even to hop on a bus and go home but he won't admit defeat. Besides, his legs are too tired and shaky for him to run anywhere, and if this new guy had really wanted to hurt him then he could probably have done it at the drum circle. Also, he kind of just saved David's life (or even his _honor_), so.

"Um," David says, because that's always a good start to everything, and then, "Thanks?" His legs give out from under him and he sits down heavily, staring at the man who is unconscious on the floor.

"Hey, no, don't do that," the drum-guy says in a concerned sort of voice (although why would he be concerned about _David_, he doesn't even _know_ him and also David was totally rude to him earlier). He leans over and wraps one of David's arms around his shoulders before standing up, hoisting David with him and grinning in a way that calms the sick feeling.

"Where are we going?" David stammers, concentrating once again on putting one foot in front of the other, and the guy gives him a charming sort of smile and says, "Well, we can't stay here. That dude's going to wake up soon, and I don't think we want to be around when he does."

"Thank you," David says firmly, because he's a great believer in being polite, and the guy laughs. It's not a polite laugh, it's a great big unembarrassed sort of laugh, the kind that David hasn't heard in a long time, and it makes him feel better for some reason.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like I was going to see that and walk on." He pauses for a moment, turning to frown at David. "You're shaking all over. When was the last time you ate?"

"Um," David says again, trying to cast his mind back. There was... on the bus, on the way here, and that was maybe yesterday or maybe the day before.

"Well, shit," the guy says, and David can't really make out his face that well in the dark. "Okay, no problem, you can just come back to mine. I can make you some grilled cheese or something, how's that sound?" David doesn't say anything, because it sounds like the best thing he's heard in a long time but he can't just _accept_ that. "I'll walk you back, after," the guy continues, like David doesn't even need to answer. "How far do you live?"

David doesn't want to say 'um' again because the guy will start thinking that he doesn't know how to say anything else, but he doesn't exactly know what to say instead.

"Never mind, you can tell me when we're inside," the guy says, just talking over David's silence and keeping up a steady pace. "So what's your name, anyway? You can tell me that now, at least," he adds, with a wink.

"David," David says and then, because that doesn't sound like enough, he adds, "Archuleta. David Archuleta." He never thought about a fake name, mainly because he doesn't think anyone's looking for him; his dad said, "If you leave, then that's it." And David had left.

"Well, I guess the stars are aligned," the guy says cheerfully. "David, I'm David. David Cook. It's nice to meet you. Oh!" he says, stopping in front of a building. "And here we are."

It doesn't look like anything special in the dim light. There are words over the door that David can't quite make out, and the whole place looks about ready to fall apart. Still, it's a place to sleep, and he doesn't complain as David Cook leads him around the side of the building and up some rickety wooden stairs. He collapses onto the couch once they're inside and he means to say thank you, he really, really does, but he's barely opened his mouth before sleep overtakes him and he slides all too easily into the darkness.

-

"So what's the story on this one? Your latest stray?" 

David's awake, but he's not sure that they know that. He's not actively _trying_ to lie or anything, or convince them otherwise. He did only just wake up a few moments ago, but he's comfortable and warm in a way that he hasn't been in a while and he's in no hurry to move. He feels like he could just sink into the couch and be enveloped by its comfortable folds of... whatever the material is, he doesn't want to think on that too much. It actually looks like the kind of couch that used to get abandoned in an alley David passed on his way to school, but it's better than sleeping on the beach.

If he sits up a little, wriggling back just enough to rest his head on the arm of the couch, David can see the guy who's speaking -- blonde and pierced, and probably one of the guys from the drum circle the other night. He doesn't look angry or like he's going to kick David out, though, which David counts as a good thing. It's not like he wants to just freeload from Cook forever but he doesn't want to go back out there just yet. If it's a choice between feeling totally rude or risking being attacked again, well, David can put up with feeling rude for a few nights more.

"I don't know if it's like that, man," Cook says at last, and it's not like David's the type to listen in but they're talking about him, so that makes it okay, right? David thinks that's totally a rule: you're allowed to listen to people's conversations if you're the subject of them. It's, like, common sense.

"You don't know," the other guy repeats, sounding unimpressed. "So, what, you just found him wandering the streets and decided to bring him home? Dave, tell me you didn't hook up with him because he looks terrified."

"I didn't hook up with him," Cook says tiredly. "And I'm a little worried that you think someone could look terrified after that happened, actually."

The other guy waves a hand dismissively. "So what's your latest cause, then?"

"Neal." Cook sighs, running a hand through his hair and leaning back against the counter. "I found him getting, like, assaulted in an alley. He had -- He was scared and alone, and I couldn't just leave him."

It's Neal's turn to sigh now, and there's silence for so long that David wonders if the conversation's over. He shifts a little, getting ready to move, but he's still too comfortable and too warm to get up just yet. Besides, he's enjoying the novelty of having blankets over him. 

"Sure," Neal says, after a little while longer. "Just... if you find out anything about him, I get to know, okay?"

"Neal--" Cook starts, and Neal holds up a hand to cut him off.

"He's living in _our_ rooms above _my_ studio, Dave," Neal says flatly. "I have a right to know if the cops are after him or if he's a rent boy or whatever. I don't have a problem with him staying here, you know that. But not if it's going to bring problems down on us. Besides," he says, and his voice softens a little. "He looks... a little young, to be out on his own. Make sure he's okay, David."

"That's why he's _here_," Cook replies. Another silence follows and then Cook huffs out a laugh, leaning back against the table. "So I take it you want me to make you pancakes, then?"

"You know it, bitch," Neal replies cheerfully, lightening the mood, and David figures this might be a good time to wake up properly.

He yawns and stretches for good measure before glancing over at Cook and Neal. They're both smiling, so David thinks he's okay for now, but he adds another hopeful sort of yawning noise in for good measure. And sneezes, although that was unintentional.

"Hey, are you okay?" Cook says right away, crossing the apartment in a few steps and kneeling down next to David.

In the daylight, David can see that Cook's got a sore looking nose and a swollen lip and he says, "Oh my gosh, I -- is that because of me? I'm really sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," Cook says dismissively, but he's still got dried blood all over his face and David can't help feeling like it's his fault.

"You haven't even cleaned it up," he points out. "It could become _infected_, Cook, you should totally just –- do you have any –- you have, um, soap and water? Right?"

"In the bathroom," Cook says, and David stands up carefully and says, "Let's go. I mean, if that's okay?"

"We have iodine, if you want," Neal calls over and David frowns a little and says, "Thanks, but iodine isn't really very good. Not for smaller things, anyway, because it sort of... increases healing time." He flushes and adds, "I used to read Wikipedia a lot?"

"I like this one," Neal says, and David almost misses Cook's low hum of agreement.

-

Cook seems pretty content to just sit on the closed seat of the toilet and watch David fill the sink with hot water. Everything in the apartment is clean, just old and sparse, and he easily finds a bar of soap and a sponge. 

"So," Cook says, clearly wanting to make conversation. "Where do you live, exactly?"

David licks his lips nervously, deciding to be honest. "Utah." Cook doesn't reply and David follows up with, "Murray, to be, like... exact."

"Utah," Cook repeats, as David lathers up the sponge, and then he starts laughing. "You live in _Utah_. What're you doing _here_, man?"

Honesty is the best policy, and David doesn't have any reason to lie, anyway. "I'm trying to be famous?" he says hopefully, twisting to try and reach Cook's face from his awkward position. Cook just laughs again, reaching out to circle David's wrist with his fingers and gently tug him over.

Butterflies are rising in David's stomach which is stupid, because there's no reason for him to be nervous, this is just -– he's just cleaning Cook's _face_, gosh. Still, it feels strangely intimate; standing in between Cook's legs and gently wiping at his face with the sponge. He realises, too late, that a damp cloth would probably be better, but the sponge is doing the job well enough. Besides, David is being totally gentle, it's fine.

"Famous for what," Cook says, just as David's trying to clean his lip and he bumps against him. Cook hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and David rolls his eyes because, _seriously_, what does Cook expect if he's just going to talk all over the place?

"Don't talk," he says sternly, and he feels Cook stifle a laugh under his fingers. "You'll just end up hurting yourself even more if you do."

"Okay, okay," Cook says, eyes dancing with amusement. "But you've got to talk to me then, man, I'm not sitting here in silence."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" David asks, wrinkling his nose and Cook's smile widens as he says, "Tell me about yourself."

So David does. It's easier than it usually is; David hates talking about himself, but something about Cook just makes it so easy. He just sits and listens, he doesn't make those annoying _hmm_and _oh_ noises that people usually do (and David hates that, gosh, either make an actual comment or just stay quiet).

He tells Cook how he didn't want to go to BYU and study for an actual career and how he just wants to, like, make music. And sing. And that he thought coming here would help but it just meant he got to wander around and feel homeless, almost, and, well, he's just kind of really glad that he met Cook, is all.

Cook's still silent when David finishes, and there's only a spot of dried blood left on his lip. David doesn't want to use the sponge because, hi, soap in your _mouth_? Talk about gross. So he doesn't think twice about moving closer to Cook and saying softly, "Um, if you could just –- stay still? For a moment?" Cook doesn't move -– it kind of seems like he's barely breathing, actually, so David doesn't really hesitate to lean in and brush his thumb across Cook's mouth. Cook breathes in sharply and David knows he should move away but feels like he's trapped there, his thumb still ghosting over Cook's mouth. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Cook says slowly, his mouth barely moving and his eyes never leaving David. "No, you didn't."

They stay there for a few moments longer, frozen, neither one of them the first to move until a door slams loudly somewhere in the apartment. "Dave? You here?"

David moves back instinctively, stumbling over his own feet and grabbing onto the door for support. "I -- that's Neal," he says unnecessarily, because obviously Cook _knows_ that, and Cook's expression doesn't change.

"Yeah," he says, staying where he is for a moment longer before standing up and grabbing a towel to wipe the water from his face. "C'mon, I'll introduce you properly. Give you the full tour." David obediently trails after Cook, looking around his surroundings for the first time as he does. The apartment is tiny; two bedrooms and the kitchen, with an extra space just big enough for a couch and TV. Cook nods towards the bigger of the rooms as they pass it. "Me and Neal share a room, that one's Andy's. He works nights so he sleeps for most of the day. Aaand, that's the end of the tour, I guess." He shrugs. "It's not much, but..."

"Oh, no, it's awesome," David says earnestly. "It is, it's -- I mean, I'm not just saying this because, like, you're letting me stay and I'll try find somewhere else as soon as possible -- not that I don't want to stay with you, I do, but I'm not, like, hinting or anything--"

"Archuleta," Cook cuts him off, but he's laughing kind of a lot. "You can stay as long as you want."

"No, because you _have_ to say that _now_. It's okay, honestly, I'm not just going to move in here--"

"Archie," Cook says, and it's the new nickname this time that causes David to fall silent. "Seriously. You don't have anywhere else and I like having you around. So don't look for anywhere else, you're not allowed to anymore. That's a house rule."

"You making rules up again, Dave?"

"It's my privilege as the house-owner," Cook says loftily, and Neal laughs as he leans easily on the counter.

"Dirty liar. Don't listen to anything he says, Archuleta."

"Oh, I'm not," David says as earnestly as he can, and Cook cuffs him lightly.

"Hey! You're supposed to idolise me, dude, I saved your honor."

"You got any questions, just ask me," Neal suggests, but his smile is fond and it gives David the courage to say something that's been on his mind.

"Um, actually, I was wondering. If I'm going to stay here -- if that's okay with you and, uh, Andy? -- is there some way I could, like, earn my keep? Like, I don't want to just live off you all or whatever."

"Don't worry about it," Cook says dimissively at the same time as Neal says "Sure." They exchange glances and Cook's the first to look away, shrugging a shoulder.

"Whatever, man, I gotta head out anyway." He rests a hand on David's shoulder and David tries not to flinch away automatically. He's been doing that as long as he can remember but this is the first time he hasn't wanted to; it's not that he's, like, fighting his instincts or anything like that, it's just that he looks the way he feels when Cook touches him. And yeah, that sounds like a really stupid thing to say, but Cook's warm and reassuring and David hasn't had anyone touch him like that in a long time. That's all. "You gonna be okay here with Neal?"

"He'll be fine," Neal says, but Cook's gaze doesn't leave David's face until David nods. Cook's expression relaxes and he salutes them both as he heads out of the door, leaving David and Neal alone together. David realises for the first time how totally awkward this could be but Neal speaks first, watching David carefully. "So. You serious about this helping out thing?"

"Um, _yes_," David says, right away. "Gosh, I can't just stay in your apartment and, like, not _do_ anything."

Neal nods, still watching David, and he feels like he's maybe passed some kind of test. "Alright, awesome. So you probably didn't notice last night, but the apartment is above a tattoo studio. We do a few piercings too, whatever."

"I'm no good with needles," David says urgently, having visions of him, like, accidentally scribbling on someone's arm or piercing a hole in the wrong place or _passing out_ or something equally embarrassing. "I can't -- I'm not, like, a piercer--"

"No, hey, that's not what I was going to say," Neal says quickly, sounding amused. "I'm not going to turn you loose with a needle, Archuleta, don't worry. But if you could work front-of-store, that'd be awesome. Just -- book appointments, shit like that. You think you're up to it?"

"I can totally do that," David says and while it's not exactly the truth, it's not a lie, either. He can learn to do it. If that's what it takes to stay here, he can.

-

"Hey," Cook says, and he flops down on the couch next to David, smiling widely. "You comin' with us, Archuleta?"

"I, maybe?" David says. He twists the hem of his shirt between his fingers, trying not to think about how disgusting it probably is and how long he's been wearing it. "Where are you going?"

"The beach," Cook says, like it's obvious. "You know, like you saw the other night. Fire, s'mores, awesome music. I really don't think you want to miss out on this."

David hesitates, trying to think of an excuse. Cook and Neal are both really nice and David doesn't want to be rude, but he doesn't do so well with crowds. Besides, every time he thinks about leaving the house after dark, he can't help thinking of that creepy guy in the alley way. He doesn't want to be some annoying kid who never leaves Cook's side, but... he really, _really_doesn't want to be on his own for, like, one second. Which is maybe a little bit pathetic, but still true.

Cook knocks his shoulder against David's, turning to look at him properly. "That wasn't actually a question before, just so you know. You don't have a choice here, Archie. You're going to come to the beach and dance and sing for us. It'll be awesome."

"Dance and sing?" David says sceptically. "I'm not, like, a performing bear."

"Funny, I was thinking more performing monkey," Cook says, and grins widely when David frowns at him. "You know, the ones with the little hats? You'd look adorable in a little monkey hat. We could even get you some cymbals--"

"No!" David yelps, mainly because he's unsure as to whether or not Cook's actually joking or not. It wouldn't surprise him if Cook actually _did_ dig up some cymbals from somewhere and, like, insist on David playing them and that's not something he wants to do, actually. "I'm not -- no cymbals, Cook."

"I guess you're going to say no hat, either," Cook says, pouting a little, and David rolls his eyes.

"I'll go, okay, but only if you promise no hat or cymbals."

"You wound me," Cook says solemnly, placing his hand over his heart. David doesn't say anything. He feels uncomfortable around Cook -- no, not uncomfortable. 'Uncomfortable' isn't the right word; David feels more comfortable around Cook than almost anyone, even more than Chris Colfer back home and David had maybe had a little bit of a crush on him. He feels slightly out of sync, though. Like -- there's something about Cook that throws him off, that puts David on edge. It's just that he can't quite work out how he feels around him, he can't put a label on it, and sometimes he doesn't know what to do or say in response.

"Hey." Cook slings an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close and grinning down at him. It's things like this that throw David off even more, he's not used to people touching him so casually. He's also not used to feeling a strange jolt in his stomach when people do. It... It's almost like when Chris had smiled at him one day, soft and private and reflected in his eyes in a way that Chris's smiles didn't usually do. But what he feels around Cook is different to that, as well; it curls lower and heavier in his stomach, and makes David look away and think of other things in a frantic effort to distract himself. So.

David's got a good thing going here, and he's grateful for that. He's not about to let anything mess it up now.

-

David has rarely felt more uncomfortable or out of place in his _life_. It's like -- okay, at home he didn't fit in, exactly, but he could do a really good impression of someone who _did_. He knew how it worked and what he was expected to do and say and he could do it, but here... Everyone's dancing and shouting and everyone seems so friendly. They all know each other and it's probably in part to the stuff that Neal keeps passing around in paper cups. 

"Firewhiskey," he says, when David asks what it is, and he takes that to mean something alcoholic. He feels odd enough being here as it is without adding alcohol into the mix; he doesn't drink and he's not about to start now, honestly. That's probably why everyone is loose-limbed and dark-eyed, anyway, and why David's just _sat_ here, on his own, like a total loser. He's not on the outskirts; he's not ready to leave a crowd, he still doesn't feel safe, and he's keeping one eye on Neal seeing as he lost Cook almost the minute they got there.

He just -- doesn't know what to do. Obviously he'd fit in better if he, like, got up and danced, but he just, that's not something that David can do. He could _try_, but he'd just feel stupid and self-conscious and awkward and his arms would just be in the way because he wouldn't know what to do with them. It'd just end up as flailing and everyone would look at him and then maybe Cook would realise how stupid he was and not want him around anymore. It's just totally better if David stays here. Besides, it's not like he's _bored_ or anything. He actually quite likes watching everyone else, and he's warm and it's... it's not exactly nice, but it's not unpleasant.

"Hey," says a familiar voice, and David tries not to jump as Cook flops down in the sand beside him. He's red in the face from where he's clearly been dancing and he strips off his shirt with a lack of self-consciousness that David only wishes he could have. Cook offers him a drink, shaking it at him. "It's only soda. I noticed you didn't have any of Neal's concoction."

David trusts him enough to take a sip, and he can't _taste_ any alcohol so he finishes the rest of it, handing it back to Cook. "Thanks."

"You're thinking too much," Cook continues, in a wise voice. "I can tell. Don't worry, I was the same the first time I came." David gives him a sceptical look and Cook laughs, tossing the cup onto the sand. "Nah, you're right, I was with Neal and we were both pretty wasted. I've seen kids like you before, though, there's an easy solution."

"Oh?" David asks, intrigued in spite of himself, and not missing the way Cook lit up when David turned his full attention to hi. "What's that?"

Cook stands up before answering, wiping the sand from his shorts and offering David a hand to help him up. "I'll show you," he says, and David bites his lip but Cook winks at him. "Trust me." It goes against everything David knows as logical, and he knows he shouldn't, but... it just feels right. Anyway, isn't that part of the reason he came out here? To take risks, and to try and be someone else, almost? He takes Cook's hand after only a moment's hesitation, and Cook's answering smile is the most blinding that David has ever seen.

He pulls him into the circle, facing strangers across the fire with the light flickering orange, yellow, gold across their faces. He feels a million miles away from home and, as the dancing starts, out of his depth like he's never been before. But Cook holds firmly onto him the whole time and David manages to forget everything apart from the feeling of moving non-stop around the fire and Cook's hand in his.

-

"Okay, I want you to listen to what I have to say, man, and not like -- go all weird if you don't like what I'm saying," Cook says, waving a hand expressively. 

David feels more than a little nervous, because he's learned that when people start things by warning him that he might not like what they have to say then it doesn't usually end well, but he can't exactly walk away from Cook so he just sort of nods instead. "Um. Sure? I guess."

"You're going about this all wrong. Handing tapes in at labels? Dude, if it was easy as that, we'd _all_ be hired. And don't get pissy because, believe me, I know how this works."

"You sing?" David asks, and immediately wants to call the words back somehow because, a) that was a dumb thing to take from that conversation as it's clearly not what Cook meant and b) just saying that he knows how it works does not mean that he's a singer. Cook's nodding, though, so maybe David wasn't entirely wrong.

"Yeah, I play guitar sometimes at the fires. Haven't for a while, though, it's more about the drumming. Can't really dance the same to _Kum Ba Ya_, you know what I mean?"

David laughs without meaning to and blurts out, "Sorry, I just -- don't really -- I can't see you singing _Kum Ba Ya_?"

"Okay, so I didn't sing _Kum Ba Ya_," Cook admits, leaning back against the couch and making it dip against David's back. The pressure causes him to slide a little towards Cook without realising, but from there it feels like second nature to rest against Cook's side, warm and secure. "Mostly just original stuff, actually. Most people were too drunk to listen by the end of the evening anyway. Used to play in a few bars as well." He blinks, as though he's only just realised what he's saying, passing a hand in front of his eyes. "Shit, you managed to get me off topic there. The point is, that's the kind of thing you need to be doing."

"I don't know," David says automatically, trying to ignore the way that Cook is absently rubbing his thumb in circles on David's arm. It's not anything, Cook probably doesn't even realise he's doing it. If he's being honest, David's been a little in love with Cook since he'd cleaned the blood from Cook's face and Cook had said he could stay as long as he needed, but it's not like he's going to act on it. Sure, it's driving him a little crazy, but David can deal with that. He likes what he's got here, he likes Cook's friendship, and he's not going to lose that just because he can't keep his mouth shut.

"C'mon, think about it, at least?" Cook presses, and his thumb scrapes lightly over David's skin. David ignores his shivers, tries to suppress them, and moves away from Cook to stand up.

"I, um, I need to go help Neal," he says, hating how breathy his stupid voice sounds, and Cook leans back and presses his hands over his eyes.

"Sure, but -- David. Promise me you'll think about it?"

Cook's voice catches on David's name and David can't deny Cook anything, can't even say no to him anymore, so he barely manages to stutter out an, "I-I promise," before turning tail and running. If Cook figures out that David likes him, it'll ruin everything. David will have to go live somewhere else, on his own, and he won't be able to work in Neal's shop or hang out at the drum circle but most of all, he won't be able to watch old movies on Cook's threadbare couch and steal popcorn from the bowl and just, it's not worth it, it's not. David just has to remember that. 

"I'll do it," he says instead, and Cook almost does a hilarious double-take. David can't help smiling, and it's totally nice to be able to be the one to throw _Cook_ out of sync for a change. "I mean, this is, like, why I came here?" His voice rises at the end as his confidence gives out slightly, making it sound like a question, but Cook's starting to return his smile so David feels like it's okay. Like everything is.

-

"I just," David says, and stops. Cook's got a frown on his face; slight, but still visible, and David realises that he's going to have to be careful with what he says. "Don't you –- I mean, are you happy –- not, are you happy, because obviously you're not _un_happy, unless you are and I can't tell, I –- are you unhappy?"

Cook raises an eyebrow and says, "Sure that's what you meant to ask me, Archuleta?" but there's a smirk tugging at his lips and he seems amused.

David takes this as a good sign. "It's just, living here, it's nice and good, but I mean, don't you... wish you were doing something _more_?"

"Oh, like you, you mean?" Cook says, but he still seems more amused than insulted so David bumbles on.

"I -- this _is_ my something more," he says, gesturing slightly wildly, and hoping Cook realises that David doesn't just mean the ten coffee shops that let him play on alternating nights. He means everything -- California, the shop downstairs and the rooms above the studio, and Cook. Most of all, Cook. "Don't you _get_ it, Cook, it's like, this is what I needed. I wasn't happy at home, and..."

"And are you happy now?" Cook says, intent and serious all of a sudden, and it's like he's asking a different question that David can't quite hear (and when did this get turned around on him, anyway?). David opens and closes his mouth wordlessly for a few moments, feeling like a fish, but he's not -- there isn't an easy answer to that question. Because he's _not_ happy, not all the time, anyway. He gets bored in the shop and upset when people reject him from their open-mic night or turn down his demo or whatever, and he has to live with the constant heart-ache that comes with Cook being so close and yet perpetually out of David's reach, but. _But_. But he's independent and he can love who he wants and do whatever he wants without anyone telling him otherwise. He's laughing and crying and loving and _living_, living in a way that he never knew existed, and that matters more than anything.

So no, David isn't happy, not really. But he wouldn't want to be any other way.

He decides to take a different line of questioning. "Is this what you _wanted_?"

Cook blinks, not answering straight away -- which is totally a good thing, of course, David is glad that he's taking this seriously. He shifts on the couch, passing a hand across his face and says to David, "Where did this come from?"

"I don't want to make you mad," David says, instead of answering the question. He figures it's important to get that out there first, in case, before he follows it up with, "I was just thinking, you know. I mean, you know why I'm here -- or, I mean, how I ended up here, but I don't really know anything about you."

Cook doesn't say anything for a few moments, which makes David worry that he actually _has_ made Cook mad, but Cook seems to sense it and gives David a tired smile. "I haven't thought about this in a long time."

"It's nothing bad, is it?" David blurts out. He doesn't want Cook to be sad, especially not because of him, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to know. Cook knows everything, well, _nearly_ everything about David. He doesn't know that part of the reason that David left was because, um, he was kind of gay, but even his parents don't know that at the moment. Besides, it's not like David is keeping it from him or anything, it just hasn't come up in conversation. And maybe he's secretly hoping that Cook will assume that he's straight but that's only because it means there's less chance of Cook being all 'hmm, David looks at me kind of a lot' and putting two and two together. Because, seriously, Cook does not need to know about David's big gay crush on him.

Anyway, the point is that it's not fair for Cook to know all this about David and David to know, like, practically nothing about Cook.

Cook bumps his shoulder against David's own, smiling reassuringly at him when David turns to face him. "It's nothing bad. It's just... I came out here with Neal and Andy because we were bored as fuck back home, I guess. It was only supposed to be, like, a stopping point, you know? A halfway place. Just to get some money together before we moved on to... make it big." He stops, pushing his hair back with his hand and sighing. "And then... we got comfortable. It's easy. And it's not like I'm unhappy."

David doesn't point out that not being unhappy isn't the same as being happy. Instead, he just says, "Um, make it big, how? Like... specifically. You said -- you sing, right?"

"Right," Cook agrees, and his smile looks more genuine this time. "No, yeah, I was gonna be a rock star." Cook would have been a good rock star. David can imagine it, almost; he'd fit well on stage, be comfortable in a way that David never really could. Cook would look perfect under bright spotlights, probably with a familiar knowing smirk and one hand on the microphone stand, guitar slung low on his hips and hundreds of girls screaming for him.

"Well, I'm glad you weren't," David says decisively, ignoring Cook's surprised look. "Because then I'd still be -- on the streets," and if he hesitates, remembering that night in the alley, well. "Or, oh, maybe I'd be in the audience and I'd just be another person going, 'Yay, Cook!'" He waves his hands a little bit, like he would at a concert, and this time Cook just bursts out laughing.

"I don't think people say 'yay' at a rock concert, Arch," he tells David and adds, before David has time to feel stupid, "so I guess you'd definitely never be just another person."

-

He doesn't mean for it to happen. It wasn't supposed to happen, and definitely not like this. It's -- Cook is _drunk_, for one thing. And he doesn't leave David's side, the whole time, which is ridiculous because David is -- he's used to the fire, now. He even knows people; there's Carly, with long dark hair and tattoos spiralling up her arms, and Brooke, who looks kind of like a hippie and always tugs David down to sit next to her. There's also Michael Johns, who is a little too loud for David, and a boy with long dreadlocks called Jason, who Cook says is almost always 'on the good stuff'.

Anyway -- _anyway_, that's not the point. The point is that Cook is with David all night, but he's also drinking pretty steadily. He doesn't usually drink around David because he knows that David kind of doesn't like it -- he's not that he dislikes it and, also, Cook can totally do what he wants, it's just that David doesn't drink -- not alcohol, and he feels awkward when Cook does. Or at least, when Cook gets drunk, not just when he has, like, a beer or something.

David keeps getting mixed up in his own thoughts, and it's got something to do with the way that Cook's arm keeps brushing against his, and the fact that Cook keeps gazing at him in the flickering firelight like he's the only person in the world. Cook says something and David doesn't hear it over the soft buzz of conversation surrounding them and more than anything, over the voice in his own head that keeps reminding him it would be wrong for anything to happen. If something happened, David wouldn't be able to live with Cook and Neal anymore and he wouldn't be able to go back home. He wouldn't have nights like this, or be able to play in nearly every single coffee shop in town, either. 

And yet for some reason, when Cook smiles at him, wide and easy, none of that seems to matter. 

David doesn't know what makes him do it (the light in Cook's eyes, the quirk of his lips, the way he always laughs with David and never at him, the way he saved him that first night and has been saving him ever since) but it's over before he knows it, anyway, and he's left with the feeling of Cook's lips against his, pressed awkwardly. David has a horrible feeling that he's done it wrong or messed it up, somehow, and he's all ready to stammer out apologies and find somewhere new to live when Cook squeezes his hand gently and says, "Archie. Hey, Arch. Quit freaking out."

"I'm not sorry," David says defiantly, trying hard not to think about the way Cook's hand is still pressed against his own and the way his heartbeat is juddering faster than he's ever felt it. "I'm not, not even if you hate me."

"I could never hate you," Cook says, more honest than David's ever heard him.

-

It's only the next day, when David wakes up with the light streaming through the curtains and has time to separate his dreams from reality, that he discovers that he's in love with Cook.

He knows, then, that he has to leave.

-

It's a Tuesday when David arrives back on Venice Beach, and it's strange how it looks entirely different to the first time he was here. Maybe because he knows where he's going, or maybe because this time he isn't running away from home, he's returning. A few people even say hi to him, because he hasn't been away _that_ long. Maybe two weeks, at the most, but he knows that's not going to make a difference to Cook. Cook's going to -- David should've done more than leave a note, probably, but he didn't know what to say. And it's just, Cook would've tried to persuade him to stay because David couldn't have given him the reason for why he was going home. Not until he had it all sorted out.

So Cook's probably going to be really mad. He told Neal -- some of it, at least, because he couldn't just run off and leave Neal without a _receptionist_, gosh. He hadn't told Neal much more than he'd left in the note, at least -- just enough for Neal to not want to hurt him. Because Cook is probably going to want to, like, hit him or something -- David is sensible enough to admit that he'd want to hit Cook, if Cook had done this to him.

His feet find their way to Neal's tattoo place almost independently of his body, and it's not until he's standing outside and looking at the battered sign over the door that he begins to think that this might not have been such a good idea. Not the way he's done it. Still, it's too late now because, hi, it's not like he can _go back in time_ or anything. David reminds himself that he did what he thought was best at the time, and that's all he could do, anyway. If Cook's mad at him, then David's just going to have to deal with that. It's fine. It's _fine_. 

It takes ten minutes before he gets inside the tattoo parlour. He keeps his hands balled into fists in his pockets, trying to make them move to open the door. At one point, he gets as far as raising his hand up but it drops back by his side before he manages to even touch the splintery wood. It's stupid, _he's_ stupid, and he turns away and spins around absently, pushing his hands through his hair. When he turns back to face the door, Neal's holding it open, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"I've been watching you hang around outside this door for fucking ever, Archuleta."

"I'm sorry," David says, without thinking, and Neal quirks an eyebrow.

"It's not me you need to say that to." He jerks his head inside the store, frowning a little. "Just get your ass in here, okay?"

David scampers inside, relieved for an excuse not to talk. His mind is a whirl with everything he needs to say to Cook, and he needs to say it in the right order as well. He's mostly just kind of terrified that he's going to miss something out, something important, and then Cook won't even give him a chance to explain and it'll just end terribly. He kind of figures it's going to end terribly anyway, just because of the way that Neal's looking at him and the weird, sick knot he can feel in his stomach. His hands are shaking, and he sits on them, ignoring the red raised lines that his jeans are going to leave across his skin.

"I'm sorry," he says again, because it's too silent and it's the only thing rattling around in David's mind at the moment. 

"Look," Neal says, turning away from where he's holding a buzzing needle over a customer's skin, "we've been over this. You explained some of it to me, and I get it. I'm not guaranteeing that Dave will, but quit apologising to me. You got that?"

"Um," David says, as the customer looks quizzically between them, "yes? I think so?" Neal huffs out a sigh and turns back to face the customer. David's too antsy to sit still, swinging his feet from the chair and worrying at his lip. "Do you want -- Is there anything for me to do?"

"For fuck's _sake_, Archuleta," Neal groans, pausing again. "I was going to keep you down here until Dave got back but right now, I honestly don't care. Go wait upstairs, just make sure you don't disturb Andy. He probably hasn't even realised you've gone."

The apartment is the same as it always was. David thought it might have changed, thought _he_ might have changed, but it's just the same as it ever was. It's a little reassuring, maybe. Kind of. He's not sure where Cook will be, though, so that's something that's changed. Two weeks ago, Cook would have been either in the apartment or downstairs at this time. It's not like he had any kind of a job, apart from running the store with Neal and doing something that he called 'networking' and David secretly called 'wandering around and chatting to people'. Which could be the same thing, but either way, it's not like a job. Not really.

The door opens and David jumps about a mile in the air before blurting out, "Where have you _been_?"

The words hang in the air for a beat too long, and David stands up, edging into the doorway enough to be able to see Cook standing there, frozen, with his jacket hanging from one arm. They sort of stare awkwardly at each other -- well, _David_ stares awkwardly at him. Cook's, um, looking like he can't quite believe his eyes, and David just hopes that when he figures it out, he won't be looking like he wants to kill David. Because David's totally weak and he could snap like a twig and Cook's -- well, David doesn't really want to die, is all. Especially not like this.

"Where have _I_ been?" Cook croaks out after a few seconds, his jacket still flapping uselessly at his side. He still isn't moving properly, but David is smart enough to know that now isn't a good time to point that out. "Where have -- it's been two fucking _weeks_, Archuleta!"

"Um," David starts nervously, trying hard to remember what came next. 

Cook doesn't give him a chance to speak. "You just took off, without even telling anyone -- oh, no, wait, my fucking mistake. You told Neal, didn't you?" It's not a question, and every word that comes out of Cook's mouth just makes David feel sicker and sicker. The worst part is that he deserves all this, and he just -- the guilt is rising up and choking him. "Yeah, you couldn't tell me, when I thought we had something. You just ran scared and fucking told Neal, who said -- what, said that it was fucking _private_? Like whatever you had to say, I wasn't good enough to hear?" He pauses again and David assumes it's another rhetorical question, concentrating on holding onto the couch so his hands don't shake and his legs don't collapse between him.

Belatedly, he realises that Cook is actually waiting for an answer, and swallows. His throat is drier than it's ever been, and it's an effort for him to dredge up the words. "I'm... sorry." It's pathetic. The words are marginal in response to everything that David needs to say. 'I'm sorry' isn't enough. 'I'm sorry' doesn't even _begin_ to cover it, and they both know it.

"You're _sorry_," Cook repeats sarcastically, when it becomes obvious that David can't say anything else right now. "Oh, right, then. Do you think -- " He breaks off, turning away to scrub at his face with his hands and David wants nothing more than to kiss the hurt out of his face, but he can't. Obviously. "I was worried sick and I was --" He stops again, physically too caught up to speak. David watches the rise and fall of his shoulders and -- Cook's _crying_, and this is just, no. David should never have done this.

"I wanted..."

"You wanted _what_? You wanted to hurt me? You wanted -- fuck, David, I don't even know why you would ever think that would be a good idea. Why did you come back? Did your parents kick you out again and you knew I was a fucking soft touch because I'm in _love_ with you?"

The only thing David can think is, _present tense_. Present tense, present tense, Cook didn't say he _was_ in love with him, he said that he _is_. It's not much and it could so easily be just a slip of the tongue, but David dares to hope. "I love you too," he says softly, and Cook's expression doesn't change.

"You've got a strange way of showing it," he says finally, and David doesn't hesitate to reach forward and cover Cook's hands with his own. Cook doesn't move, but that means that he doesn't shake David off or punch him in the face either, and the tendril of hope in David's chest unfurls a little further.

"That's why I went home," he says eagerly, and can immediately tell that he's said the wrong thing from the way Cook's face shutters. "No! I didn't -- I'm not _ashamed_, or scared, or anything. Please, please, listen to me, I just, I couldn't..."

"You couldn't," Cook says dully and David shakes his head, eyes on Cook's, intent on making him understand.

"I couldn't stay here with my family back there, I just. Listen to me, Cook -- _listen_."

"You have thirty seconds," Cook says hollowly, and David almost trips up over his words as he tries to get them out faster.

"I left home because -- well, I mean, because I was gay, but I didn't tell my parents that, I told them I was leaving because -- um -- because I had to, I had to play music, I mean, I couldn't stay there and play music, it just..." He can't think of what he wants to say but he's got Cook's attention and he can't risk losing it, so he stumbles on. "It wasn't working, and _I_wasn't working, but the thing is, I wanted to be with you." David's ninety nine percent sure he's past thirty seconds now, but Cook isn't saying anything and David isn't about to stop talking. "And I don't, I felt like if my parents didn't know that's why I left, they'd still --" He sighs in frustration, unable to explain himself properly.

Cook squeezes his fingers gently, the touch almost imperceptible, and David's surprised to see a tiny, tiny smile. It's so small that he could almost have imagined it, but it's there. "Take your time, Archuleta."

"Okay." David sighs again, a soft exhale of breath as he tries to collect his thoughts. "If I stayed here with you, then my parents wouldn't know that I was gay, even though I was. And I'd feel like I was lying to them, and I just... I _love_ you," he says. "I wanted them to know that, I don't want to hide anymore and I don't want to lie to them and I thought, if I told you, then you might try and stop me because you might not be in love with me too, but even if you weren't, I still was. I still _am_, and I just... You taught me not to be scared. You said you could never hate me."

Cook doesn't say anything for what feels like hours, but in reality it can't be longer than ten minutes. Still, David's aware of every breath he takes and he can't take his eyes away from Cook's, desperately searching his face for any sign of a reaction. 

Finally, Cook just says, "How are you _real_?" His smile's grown, wide and happy, and David allows himself to breathe properly again.

"That -- Is that a good thing?"

"That's a good thing," Cook confirms, his voice low, and David bites his lip and says, "Um, can I kiss you now, then? Like... properly?"

He expects Cook to laugh, to turn away and make some remark about David, but instead Cook shakes his head and says in a rough voice, "You don't have to ask, David -- you never have to ask."

-

It turns out, Cook had saved enough money for a recording studio. He hadn't settled on anything yet, but he'd been out looking for a band. Neal and Andy played guitar, but he really needed the other parts. Studio musicians weren't what he wanted, and David can't help the warm flare of pride he feels when Cook brushes hair out of his eyes, smiling down at him and says, "You were right."

David moves his hand away from where he'd been tracing over the outline of Cook's tattoo to cup Cook's face, always with a jolt in chest that reminds him all over again how lucky he is to be able to do this now. "Right about what? I mean, about _everything_, of course, but -- specifically?"

Cook laughs and says, "You're lucky we're still in the honeymoon period, I'm going to let you get away with that. But..." He pauses, rolling over to take the weight off his elbows as he collapses next to David. "About not being happy. About wanting more. I thought -- it was you, more than anything, but I didn't want to stay at the halfway point for the rest of my life."

"I would've stayed there with you," David offers and Cook smiles in the way that only David can make him do, and says, "I know. But... I want you to record a song with me, Archuleta."

"We're not being, like, a boyband?" David checks. If Cook wanted them to be then he totally would be, but, um, he doesn't really think it would work. 

"No, just... one song. Take some time out from your busy tour of coffee shops to sing a song with me."

"I will," David promises, and Cook kisses him again and again until Neal knocks on the door and says, "Fuck you guys if you think I'm coming in there, but can you put some clothes on, man?" David does, ignoring the way Cook lays back and laughs at him, looking debauched and inviting, and hurries downstairs instead to help out in the tattoo parlour. He's not making it big but he doesn't want a demo, anyway, he's happy to live here and help out and play at shop after shop after shop. He's actually happy now, and knowing that Cook is as well is better than anything David could have imagined.

The first single released from Cook's album is a duet.


End file.
